Street Dreams

by Street Dreams

  “Petach Tikvah. My father remarried, so the housing didn’t improve much. There were ten of us in a three-room apartment. But at least it was our own apartment.”

  “That’s not exclusive to Ethiopians, you know. Everybody’s cramped in Israel. You learn to be a good team player.”

  “Or you leave,” Koby stated.

  “Gotcha.” Rina held up the flowers. “I should put these in water and check on dinner. I’m actually planning to go to shul.” She looked at Koby. “Did you want to go to shul? It’s Ashkenazdavening.”

  “No problem. Thebeit knesset I go to—when I go—is Ashkenaz.”

  “Which one is that?”

  “It is in Los Feliz, near my house. It is Conservative service, but the rabbi has Orthodox background, I think. He’s Hungarian.”

  “I’m Hungarian,” Rina said. “What’s his name?”

  “Robert Farkas.”

  Rina shrugged ignorance. “Lots of Hungarians in this city.” Another shrug. “I should check on dinner.”

  “Anything I can help you with, Rina?” I piped in.

  “Yes, you can help your sister get dressed. The child is a turtle.” Rina looked at my father. “Are you ready?”

  “Yes, I am. Need help in the kitchen?”

  “If you’re offering, I won’t say no.” She smiled at Koby, then at me. “See you in a minute.” She took Dad’s hand. It might have been my imagination, but it looked as though she was trying to calm him down.

  ∇

  “Don’t say a word,” Rina whispered.

  “I’m not saying anything!” Decker whispered back. “And you don’t have to tell me how to behave. I am not a racist!”

  “I know that.”

  “Well, I don’t think youdo know that. Otherwise you wouldn’t look so damned worried.”

  “I’m not worried.”

  “Yeah, you are.” He clutched the wine as he spoke. “I’m going to have a wonderful meal with my family, all right? So stop giving me those looks! And don’t tell me you wouldn’t have had some feelings if it had been Sammy or Jacob bringing home an Ethiopian girl.”

  “As long as she was Jewish, I wouldn’t care.”

  “Well, aren’t you the liberal one!”

  “Peter, why don’t you make yourself useful?” She handed him the bouquet of flowers. “Put these in a vase and set them on theShabbat table. Then open the wine before you break the bottle.” She stirred a pot of lentil soup. “We’ll let it breathe while we’re in shul.”

  Decker regarded his wife, then looked at the objects in his hands. He set them on the kitchen counter, realizing that his jaw was clenched. He took a deep breath in, then let it out. Reaching his long arms to the top cabinet, he opened the door and took down a cut-crystal vase. He placed it under the sink and began to fill it with water.

  “Flowers . . . wine . . . the man has manners.” He growled out, “More than . . .”

  He left it at that. Rina filled in the blank. “More than Cindy?”

  “He’s probably too good for her.”

  “She’s a good girl, Peter. She’s gone through hell—”

  “I know that, Rina. Stop giving me perspective, okay? I’m not angry. I just don’t know why she didn’t . . . Forget it!”

  Rina checked the meat thermometer in the lamb roast, then turned down the temperature. She opened the refrigerator and took out green beans. “I’ll put these on the hot tray. That way they won’t overcook. Nothing worse than limp green beans.”

  “It smells good,” Decker said quietly.

  “What does?”

  “Everything.” He turned off the water and planted a kiss on his wife’s forehead. “Thank you for making this delicious meal. I’m snapping at you. I apologize.”

  “I know you’re not a racist, Peter. And I’m not trying to one-up you, okay? It would have been nice if she had leveled with you. Just to prepare you.”

  “Exactly!”Decker plunked the flowers into the vase. “That’sexactly what I meant!” Rummaging through the drawers, he found a corkscrew. “She tells me he’s a traditional Jew from Israel; I get a certain picture in my mind, that’s all.” He plunged the bit into the cork. “I’m too involved, that’s the problem. It’s her life.”

  “He seems lovely,” Rina said.

  “How can you tell that in thirty seconds?”

  “He’s got beautiful eyes. They’re windows to the soul. I can just tell.”

  “Nonsense, you’re being irrationally optimistic.”

  “Peter, he’s Jewish, around her age, and gainfully employed.”

  Decker stopped a moment, then shrugged. “True.” He went to work on the cork. “Well, if I say I’m not prejudiced, I guess I shouldn’t prejudge.”

  A moment later, Cindy came in. Decker took in her face, then popped open the cork. He smelled the wine. “Not bad. It’ll be better after it breathes a little.”

  “You like Cabernet,” Cindy said.

  “Yes, I do.” Decker smiled but didn’t continue the conversation. Rina tried out a nervous smile. She was so tired of playing referee, but that seemed to be her lot in life. “Everything okay?” she asked her stepdaughter.

  “Just fine. Hannah’s dressed and ready to go.”

  “Thank you.”

  “No problem.” Cindy was trying to make eye contact with her father, but he had busied himself with flower arranging. “Koby needs candles.”

  “Of course,” Rina said. “Do you want to light, Cindy?”

  “Yes, thanks.”

  Rina went into the pantry and brought out four tea lights. Decker was looking at his daughter with deadpan eyes.

  Cindy said, “I found the baby’s mother, you know.”

  “Congratulations,” Decker said. “I should have told you that right away.”

  No one spoke for a few moments.

  “I’d like to talk to you about it,” Cindy said. “I have some concerns.”

  Curiosity flickered in Decker’s eyes, but he kept his equilibrium. “Sure. Go ahead.”

  “I don’t think this is the right time. It may take more than a few minutes.”

  “Okay. Why don’t you give me a call tomorrow night?”

  Cindy knew her father was giving her the brush-off. But she proceeded as if she didn’t know better. “Actually, if you have time, I’d like to meet with you on Sunday. Could you come out to my place?” She tried a sheepish smile. “I’ll even cook you breakfast.”

  Decker remained expressionless. “I told Hannah I’d take her to the movies.”

  Rina said, “There’s a two o’clock show. You could probably make it back in time.”

  Decker raised a disapproving eyebrow at his wife. But she was right. If he didn’t back off, he’d deserve what he’d get. “It’s important to you, Cynthia?”

  “Kind of, yeah. I’d really appreciate your help.”

  He gave a forced smile. “Sure, honey. Around nine, then?”

  “That would be perfect.”

  “Here you go.” Rina handed her the tea lights. Cindy thanked her and they all left it at that.

  14

  When I came backinto the living room, Hannah was seated next to Koby, the two of them turning the pages of an oversize art book entitledSolomon’s People. The tome was almost as big as she was. She looked splendid in a lime green dress and matching jacket that magnificently offset her red hair. She was learning the tricks of being a carrottop at a very early age. “What’s that?”

  Koby said, “A book of Ethiopian Jews. I know several of the people.”

  “Who?” Hannah asked.

  “This lady here,” Koby said. “She was a very good friend of my older brother Yaphet. She married a rabbi and lives somewhere in the Negev.”

  “She’s beautiful.”

  “Oh yes, very, very beautiful. I had a terrible crush on her. Alas, my affections were not returned.”

  “Then she’s stupid,” Hannah said.

  “No, but I thank you for the support. It was more lik
e she was seventeen and I was thirteen, though I was as tall as she. For an Ethiopian, I am very tall.”

  Hannah stared at him. “I thought all Africans were tall.”

  “Hannah!” I scolded.

  “It’s fine.” Koby smiled. “No, not all Africans are tall, especially North Africans. Most Ethiopians are Coptic Christians . . . more like Egyptians than anything else. I just happen to be tall because my parents are tall.” He looked up at me. “Would you like a hand with the candles?”

  I had forgotten I was holding them. “I’ll just set them next to Rina’s candles. That’s where I usually light.”

  Koby stood up. “I think you’d better put on your shoes, Hannah.”

  “Should I wear my boots or my high heels?” she asked me.

  “What’s more comfortable to walk in?” I said.

  “The same.” She shrugged and turned to Koby. “What do you think?”

  “With that dress and jacket, heels, definitely.”

  “I’ll be right back!” She rushed off to her room.

  “She likes you,” I told him. “You have a way with kids.”

  “I work with kids.”

  I hit my forehead. “Uh, yeah . . . duh!”

  Koby caught my eye. “How’d it go in there?”

  I shrugged, trying to act indifferent. “He’s still talking to me.”

  “A good sign. I like your stepmother. She seems . . . genuine.”

  “She is genuine.” Just then my two stepbrothers appeared. Sammy had reached the benchmark age of twenty. Jacob had attained the majority of eighteen. They were tall, good-looking guys, both of them in suits with their hair still wet from recent showering. They came out chattering about something, and when they saw me, they stopped talking. First they looked at me, then at each other; then their eyes went to the floor and back up again.

  Sammy was trying to stifle a grin. He extended his hand to Koby.“Shabbat Shalom.”

  Koby took it, then shook hands with Jacob.“Shabbat Shalom.”

  Sammy said, “My father said you were Israeli.”

  “Yes, but before I was Israeli, I was Ethiopian.”

  “I see that,” Sammy answered. “Jewish Ethiopian.”

  “Yes, Jewish Ethiopian.” A pause. Koby said, “If you have doubts, you can check mymillah.”

  The boys burst into laughter and so did Koby. I didn’t get the joke, but I smiled anyway.

  Sammy said, “I think I speak for my brother when I say, we’ll pass. Since Cindy’s not bothering to introduce us, I’m Sammy. He’s Jacob.”

  “You didn’t give me a chance,” I told him. “This is Koby.”

  “Also a Yaakov,” Jake said. “Where did you live in Israel?”

  “My family still lives in Petach Tikvah.”

  “That’s near Kfar Saba, right?”

  “Yes, it’s the next town over.”

  “I have a ton of friends from yeshiva who live there and in Ranana.”

  “Yes, both those places are very American.”

  Sammy said, “You want something to drink before we go to shul?”

  “No, I’m fine.” He checked his watch. “It’s time to light thenerot. I need a match, please.”

  “In the breakfront,” I said.

  Koby and I lit our respective candles, both of us saying the blessing, although he understood the words that I mouthed. When we were done, we wished each otherShabbat Shalom. Rina lit candles for her household. Within a few minutes, we were on our way to synagogue.

  One good thing about my stepbrother Sammy. No one could talk as much as he could. When we reached the tiny storefront that acted as the neighborhood Orthodox temple, I knew we wouldn’t be sitting together. Right before we parted ways—men on one side of the wall, women on the other—I asked him what the word“millah” meant. Straight-faced, he told me it meant circumcision.

  I waited until I was on my side of the fence, then I broke out into laughter.

  ∇

  Orthodox Judaism was a religion of routine, and at the dinner table, the first order of business was always welcoming the metaphorical Sabbath Bride in a song called“Shalom Aleichem.” This ode was followed by a tribute to the real woman of the house—a poem from Proverbs called“Eshet Chayil,” or “Woman of Valor.” I’ve read the English a couple of times, and the gist of it centered around a woman slaving away without complaint to support her husband and family, words that seemed quaint and a bit shallow in the postmodern feminist world. I’ve had many a Sabbath dinner with my father’s family and when it came to this part, Dad, who hadn’t been blessed with a natural singing voice, always mumbled his way through the stanzas.

  Tonight was a different story, however. My father sang, of course. But this time, the Loo was joined by my stepbrothers, who were fluent with the Hebrew text and sang with grace and meaning, their voices ringing clear as they smiled at Rina. But it was Koby who gave me pause, his voice deep and crystal, singing along note perfect with my stepbrothers in crisp, beautiful Hebrew. Here was a black man from Africa sitting with my white family from Los Angeles, people he had known less than two hours, and he was more integrated than I was. It brought it all home, that a traditional Sabbath cut through cultural lines. When the chorus came and the men broke into spontaneous harmony, an involuntary lump formed in my throat.

  Within a short period of time, everyone at the Friday-night table appeared relaxed, eating great food and swapping stories of the week. My father’s family was a noisy bunch and with my stepbrothers’ swiftness of speech and Hannah’s relentless interruptions, it was sometimes hard to keep up with the conversation. If anything, I was the least comfortable person there. Though I was family, there were times when I was the odd person out with all the Hebrew, Israeli, and religious references flying around. Koby, however, appeared totally at ease. He was a good storyteller because his life had given him lots of raw material to work with.

  “I was twelve when I had my first actual outing in civilization,” he said. “We had been in Israel, oh, maybe six months. We had gone throughulpan, and we spoke Hebrew in school, of course. But the refugee camp was exclusively Ethiopian and we spoke Amharic to the elders, who were not as fast as the kids in learning Hebrew.”

  “I can relate to that.” Dad had just polished off his second glass of wine. Nothing like alcohol to take the edge off. Koby refilled his glass, then his own.

  “It’s pretty good, no?”

  “Very good,” my father agreed. “You’re a red-wine drinker?”

  “Primarily, yes.”

  “So what was your first outing?” Sammy asked.

  Koby laughed. “My friend Reuven and I were given over to two eighteen-year-old yeshiva boys from Itri or Hakotel, someplace in Jerusalem. It was supposed to be a morning of learningChumash and an afternoon of fun and adventure. The morning was a bust. Their Hebrew was poorer than ours was. Perhaps it was the Long Island accent. We kept asking,‘Mah atem omrim?’ ‘What are you saying?’ We couldn’t understand a word! Besides, someone had set up a hoop in our refugee camp and all we want to do was shoot baskets. Finally, after lunch, they take us to the bus stop for our first day in the city. Reuven and I have never been on a real bus before.”

  “I can see where this is leading,” Rina said.

  “Up and down the aisle, people were screaming at us. We didn’t care. Then the boys take us toKanyonit .” He turned to me. “A minimall. Only it’s brand new and there are no shops inside. Just this one little store that sellsgoofiot —T-shirts. That’s it. All this empty space and nothing but T-shirts. The rest of the bottom floor of the mall was empty except for the escalators . . . which we had never seen before. To us, it was Disneyland. Up the down, and down the up, and over and over and over. Drove those poor boys crazy because, let me tell you, we were fast little bugs. I ran competitive track in Maccabee competition.”

  “That’s really cool,” Jacob said.

  “How’d you do?” Sammy asked.

  “Good enough for my coach to
say, think about the Olympics for Israel. But that would have meant devoting hours to running. I lacked the drive to work that hard. Without drive, forget it. Still, I could move, as the yeshiva boys found out.”

  “Those poor white boys never had a chance,” Sammy remarked.

  “Such is life.” Koby turned to Rina. “The lamb is delicious.”

  “Then you’ll have more,” Rina said.

  “Please.” Koby took another small piece, then started laughing. “Okay. So after the escalator rides, they get the bright idea to take us bowling. That is upstairs—a bowling alley and a snack bar. We’re running across the lanes. The manager screams at the boys in Hebrew, the boys scream at us in English, which, of course, we don’t understand. And the few Israelis there . . . they’re smoking away, shaking their heads in very much disapproval, saying‘Ayzeh chayot’ —‘those animals.’ The boys finally hold us by our shirts—literally. Then we start begging them to buy us something to eat.”

  He turned to me.

  “The snack bar has noteudat kashrut —a certificate that states a place as kosher—and these two religious boys do not want to buy us anything from an uncertified place. We beg and beg and beg. They cave in and buy us a Coke. We beg some more. They cave in and buy us potato chips in a bag with a kosher symbol. Then I see this boy blowing up the bag and punching it until it makes a pop.”

  Sammy started laughing. “I used to do that.”

  “I know you did,” Rina said.

  Koby said, “It is no problem if the bag is empty. Only I don’t know this. I do it with the potato chips still inside.”

  Dad smiled. “So what happened after they arrested you?”

  “The boys get us out in time, otherwise I’m sure I have a record. It was an unmitigated disaster. But I tell you this. Those boys . . . they had patience. They came back the next week and tried again . . . and again. They make a deal with us. If we learn ourChumash, they’d play basketball with us in the afternoon.”

  “Were they any good at basketball?” Sammy asked. “It’s a yeshiva sport, you know.”

  “Yes, I know. They teach us the game, Sammy. What do we know about organized sports in Ethiopia? I come from a small village near Lake Tana, not Addis Ababa.”